


the end of all things

by narrativefoiltrope



Category: The Wayhaven Chronicles (Interactive Fiction)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt, F/M, I am so so sorry y'all, Mortality, a look at winter's decision to stay mortal from mason's perspective, and how that impacts their relationship as well as how he processes her loss
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:20:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27153055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narrativefoiltrope/pseuds/narrativefoiltrope
Summary: mason attempts to navigate the detective's decision to remain mortal.
Relationships: Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles), Female Detective/Mason (The Wayhaven Chronicles)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 35





	1. too much

He knows she is gone when everything becomes _too much_ again; too loud, too bright, too hard, too painful. The excess is not new—he had lived with it for decades before her—but in the last 55 years, his ability to cope with it had dwindled; he had never been far from her for long, her presence softening the harsh edges of a world he otherwise found hard to exist in. Now it comes rushing back at him like an oncoming train and he is flattened by it, flayed alive by mere existence, crushed under the weight of being. 

Of being now when she no longer is. (Was.) 

He is almost thankful for the sensory anguish because it almost— _almost_ —distracts him from the devastation he feels. The bedsheets covering her frail form scrape against his arm and the beeping of machines assaults his eardrums and the antiseptic smell burns his nose and the fluorescent lights force him to close his eyes (still too bright, too bright, _fuck_ )— 

He distantly registers the taste of salt and realises he is—has been for a while, probably—crying.


	2. unmoored

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the morning after winter tells mason she is remaining mortal, and the fall-out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also published on tumblr (@narrativefoiltrope) for 31 days of wayhaven, prompt: decay.
> 
> “Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m not the one choosing to die,” he replied on a heavy exhale.

“I need to know that you’re going to be okay,” Winter said one morning ten years into their relationship (his first and, most likely, last). She sat up from where she was nestled against his chest in bed so she could look directly at him. “I need _you_ to know that this has nothing to do with you; I love you so much sometimes I think my chest might crack open.” He knew the feeling.

She was referencing their conversation the night before, when she had taken one of his hands in both of hers and told him that she had made up her mind—she was choosing mortality. 

“Don’t worry about me, sweetheart. I’m not the one choosing to die,” he replied on a heavy exhale. It was a response perfectly formulated to deflect: The same speech pattern as always, the use of his pet name for her, the way he (attempted to) joke at her expense. But his tone betrayed him, the words taking on a hard edge, a flash of the malice he used with everyone but Winter—never Winter—cutting through. 

Mason knew that he could tell her he wanted her to stay. He knew if he did, she might actually stay—her incessant need to take care of those around her before herself might overcome her and in turn protect him from facing an eternity without her. But she had worked so goddamn hard to curb those impulses, to voice what she wanted and stand up for herself; he remembered how bizarrely proud he was the first time she yelled at him, even if she immediately clamped a hand over her mouth afterwards in regret. 

_He_ could _ask her to stay…_

Winter shifted next to him and he chanced a look at her. Her brows knotted together as she studied him silently, picking up on everything he didn’t say. Something shifted inside him under her unwavering gaze; concern was evident on her face and fuck if those doe eyes didn’t unmoor him every single time. 

He sighed and pulled her back against him, an apology. “It has to be your decision,” he mumbled into her hair. 

“I know.” A pause. An unsteady inhale. “I’m such a part of this place and these people and I can’t imagine having to disappear…pretending to die when I’m still _here?_ Not being able to see them in thirty years when I should be wrinkled and I’m not? I can’t hurt them—Tina, Verda, Haley, my cousins—like that.” Another pause, then she admitted barely audibly, “It would hurt me too.”

And there it was. “I know, sweetheart.” His heart strangled momentarily in his chest at her confession and he held her closer, tighter. He knew then that although he would burn down the world to keep her here, with him, he would engulf her in the process.

 _…he wouldn’t._

They laid in silence for a long time before Winter looked at the clock and disentangled herself from him with a sigh. “I’m going to be late for my shift if I don’t get moving.”

He caught her wrist as she stood up from the bed and fixed her with a smoulder. “I think your boss can spare you for an hour if I only have you for a few more decades, don’t you?”

Winter laughed incredulously. _“Now?”_

“How else are you going to make sure I’ll be okay? I _am_ facing your mortality, here, sweetheart—I could use some comfort.” 

She shook her head before dipping down to place a light kiss on his temple. “Maybe you’ll be better behaved when I look like your grandmother.” 

He scoffed. “As if that would stop me. I’m almost insulted.” 

Mason watched as Winter slipped into her pressed trousers. He wondered just how many more mornings she could get into them before arthritis gnarled her joints, bent her spine, stiffened her fingers, made it difficult for her to move. 

It didn’t matter—he’d be there when it happened.


	3. forget-me-not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the first time, several months following winter's death, that mason visits her grave.

Mason hovered near the entrance of the graveyard. It wasn’t foreboding. Not grim like in horror movies. The entryway was well-manicured but not rigidly so, bushes and flowerbeds just overgrown enough to remind visitors that life existed even in this solemn place. The sky above was partly cloudy and a light breeze teased his hair. It was the kind of weather that reminded him of her: Bright but not overwhelming; comfortable. 

No, his hesitation had nothing to do with the scenery, but what it represented (and it wasn’t like he gave a fuck about symbolism, but how could he have lived for decades with a woman so hellbent on finding beauty in everything and not look for meaning himself? Especially fucking now). 

He (still) wasn’t ready to see it—see _her_ —like this. 

He had avoided this for months after the funeral. Not because he wanted to, but because he fucking couldn’t. 

Their sons had visited often, always inviting him to join them, but each time it was still too much, too soon. Too painful. More recently, Adam had offered—quietly one day following a unit briefing, on the three month anniversary of her death—to go with him. At least Adam would’ve been quiet, not forcing him to talk about his feelings (unlike Theo, his younger son) or trying to distract him from the mundane devastation that was now his status quo (unlike Alexander, the oldest), but—

He couldn’t do this with an audience.

Couldn’t be in the last place he saw her, or some version of her—not the Winter he had loved (still loves, will always love), warm and kind, but untouchable, unreachable. Separated by granite and earth. 

Steeling himself—shoulders hunched, right hand shoved into his jacket pocket white-knuckling a carton of cigarettes (just in case, in case he couldn’t—), left hand gripping a bunch of primroses, lilies, and forget-me-nots wrapped in brown paper—Mason drew in a breath and walked through the gate.

Generations of Collinses were laid to rest in a quiet corner at the back of the cemetery. He had memorised the winding path the last time (the first time) he’d been here: Gravelly and uneven, something to occupy his eyes so he didn’t have to see Nate’s worried glances or Felix try and fail to crack a smile in his direction. Without a crowd, it felt shorter now. He stepped off onto the grass and headed towards a familiar cluster of graves.

Past several low and rounded tombstones, worn with age. 

Past a procession of newer, more rectangular markers. 

Past two coordinating headstones, one bearing a nickname and the other bearing the name of the one person he’d truly feared (and respected). 

Even at a slow pace, he was suddenly _there_ again. Much too quickly. 

The newest and shiniest headstone, Winter’s name carved into it, stood silently in front of him.

His mouth went dry. He felt his heart try to break free of his chest, demanding to dive into the ground and bury itself next to her where it belonged (it was hers anyway). A wave of panic rose in the back of his throat, threatened to tow him under, drown him. He tried to breathe—gasped—

The breeze at that moment disrupted the flowers he carried, bending them gently up and carrying the subtle citrusy, fruity scents of the primroses and lilies towards him. 

And the panic dissipated as quickly as it came. 

He stood still, took several deep breaths, inhaling the smell of the bouquet—flowers from Winter’s garden that was now his, Alexander, and Theo’s responsibility to look after—and felt himself begin to relax. Images of his wife appeared unbidden: Winter in her beat-up straw sunhat, her gloved hands carefully arranging soil or pruning plants, sunlight around her like a halo. 

Of course.

She had always smelled like her garden. 

He tried to drop his shoulders, tension shooting them up to his ears, and shook his head. A small laugh escaped him. “Still trying to make me feel better, sweetheart?”

Mason took another step towards the headstone. 

...He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do. Now. In front of her, or what remained of her. 

He’d visited Rebecca’s grave with Winter but always hung back, giving her space and as much privacy as his senses would allow, as she would sit near the grave—now directly next to her own—and talk to her mother. 

“I—” he started, broke off with a frustrated groan. This felt fucking ridiculous. Talking to someone who wasn’t there, who hadn’t been there for months (that was the whole goddamn problem). 

But—What else was he supposed to do? 

He placed the flowers in front of the grave. “Brought you these,” is what he finally managed, voice gruffer than usual. He shifted on the spot in an uncharacteristically awkward movement; left hand—now free of the bouquet—sought refuge in his jacket pocket, fist curled until the blunt nails were almost painful against his palm. “Your garden is alright,” he continued. “Not as nice as when you looked after it, but it’s alive.”

...Fuck. 

Mason clutched the cigarette pack tighter and willed himself not to fucking smoke. Not after all these years, not here. 

Not in front of her. 

“Fuck, I—I don’t know what I’m doing,” he admitted in a strangled voice. “I miss you so goddamn much, sweetheart.” 

Standing, remaining upright, became too difficult so he sank to the ground. 

It was easier somehow. More peaceful, the closer he was to her. Or maybe it fucking wasn’t, but he was desperate enough to imagine it was. He ran a hand roughly through his hair and let out a sigh. 

“I know this is what you wanted, but fuck, I wish you were still here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this follows on from an anonymous tumblr request from a 'things you said' prompt list, specifically 'things you said after it was over' for winter and mason. it seems fitting in this series.

**Author's Note:**

> written as part of 31 days of wayhaven, prompt: grief.  
> i hurt myself writing this so sorry if it hurts you too :(  
> come yell about twc with me on my tumblr @narrativefoiltrope!
> 
> i am expanding on this! it's a wip but i'll be adding chapters about the aftermath of the conversation in which winter tells mason she won't be turning into a vampire.
> 
> title taken from the song of the same name by panic! at the disco


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